THE CROFTON CHRONICLE
# 4
I sit in Baba’ s lap, pointing as a circus performer swings from one raised platform to another, suspended midair.
“ Baba look! That’ s you,” I chuckle.“ I’ m a trapeze?” Baba laughs.
No. He is better than any flying trapeze I have ever seen. A trapeze lets go and catches again, the next moment. Baba flies halfway across the Earth just to reach me.
When I was little, Baba lived two lives. Half of him was in Vancouver, and the other half worked in China. When he was home, I would crawl under his covers every night and listen to his bedtime stories. Sometimes they were about a frog trapped at the bottom of a well, who escaped and finally saw how vast the sky really was. Sometimes about Mr. Swallow, who migrated tirelessly from North to South each year. Sometimes about a little snake who wanted to evolve into a dragon god by protecting the village it guarded.
I didn’ t always understand the stories, but I loved the way Baba told them, with his Mandarin, clumsy and accented.
“ Baba, you silly,” I’ d giggle.“ It’ s hú li, not huī lí!”
He’ d laugh too, unfazed and wrap me tightly in my blanket. I would then slither closer to his side and hug him with all my might, certain that whatever he missed while he was gone could always be made up for when he returned.
When Baba left again, I worked on an invention. I held up the blueprint proudly when he came home: shoes with wings. I had filled my sketchbook with drafts— each page smudged with eraser scraps and pencil shavings. If Baba had flying shoes, he wouldn’ t need to endure a fourteen-hour plane ride. He could defy gravity. He could fly back to me whenever I missed him.
The shoes were never built. And without them, Baba’ s visits grew farther apart: once a month, once every six months, once a year …
One evening, when I was twelve, Baba received a call from China. I grabbed his hand instinctively.
“ Don’ t leave,” I pleaded.
He gently shook me off and disappeared into his room. The next morning, he rolled a suitcase to the door.
“ Don’ t leave,” I cried.“ Grandma’ s having surgery,” he said.“ You’ ve grown up. Be a good girl.”
WHEN MY TRAPEZE COULD NO LONGER FLY